


My Dearest Watson

by scriptura



Series: Burn [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Desperately unspoken, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Hamilton - Freeform, Hamilton the musical, John Loves Sherlock, Letters, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Mentioned Mary Morstan, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Pining John, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Sentimental, Sentimental Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, it's desperately unspoken, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:40:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5424323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptura/pseuds/scriptura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes, in the letter I received from you I noticed a comma in the middle of a phrase. It was a phrase you’ve often said aloud in our past days. The comma you’ve included changed the meaning. It created a pause I’ve never heard before. I find myself unable to stop pondering your intention. You’ve written ‘My Dearest Watson’ with a comma after dearest.</p><p>You’ve written My Dearest, Watson.</p><p>Did you intend this? </p><p>* * * * * * * * * * * * * *</p><p>A victorian!johnlock ficlet based off of songs from Hamilton the musical</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Dearest Watson

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by songs from Hamilton the Musical and is set in a Victorian AU of BBC Sherlock. The line I drew the most inspiration from (and from where this idea was born) was the line "You've written my dearest . . . Angelica . . ." in the song Take a Break.

The flat was quiet. 

It had been two weeks, twenty-five minutes, and six seconds since John Watson had left the flat, leaving silence in his wake. Seven seconds, now. Eight. Each second passed and with each second Sherlock's heart beat. But that seemed wrong, somehow. How could Sherlock's heart continue beating, when the reason for his heart to beat was gone? Not just gone, but having legally bound his heart to another. John had married. Secretly Sherlock had always dreaded the day John would find himself a wife who would love John in ways Sherlock couldn't; in ways Sherlock was not allowed to. And John loved her; he loved her in ways he could never love Sherlock, be it that he was not allowed to, or that he simply did not. The day had come. John had married. Sherlock had been his best man. But no one knew. No one could ever know. No one could ever know about the love that Sherlock dare not give a name. And now, there was a chill that now seemed to reside in the room as if in response to the loss of the warmth of Sherlock’s only companion. In the fireplace a few embers flickered but the fire was near put out; the flames were dying. 

Resignation settling deep in his bones and the hollowness in his chest suddenly filled with reckless and uncaring abandon, Sherlock sat and took up his pen to write. 

 

My Dearest, Watson

I seldom write, but at the moment I am rather forced to take my pen in hand. Without you beside me, it is the only option currently offered for us to engage in conversation. The days creep by here in the flat where you previously resided. Tomorrows and tomorrows pass by one after another without distinction. And though you are only in another part of London, it feels as though you are an ocean away. Must you be an ocean away? I cannot put the notion of you being here with me away. 

The Work fills my waking hours, but I find it does not take hold of my mind as it did before. Just as my thoughts of you seemingly abate, I am reminded of you by some insignificant detail. It is infuriatingly distracting. My mind wanders to thoughts of you at the slightest reminder, and there it then stays. A pretty story indeed, for the great Consulting Detective to have his brain monopolized by you, my Doctor and companion, rather than the Work I am accustomed to being consumed with. I am evidently lost without my writer. And yet we are lucky, I suppose. I look around and contemplate the great adventures we have shared and what the journey that has led us here. I think about where we are and where we have been. It is perhaps a miracle that both of us are living, in relative contentment, I suppose. 

And I might suppose that you have become far more content, having carried your bride across the threshold of your new home, following the holiday during which you celebrated your nuptials. You know I am not a man prone to romanticism or sentimentality, nor am I one who has ever sought the binding union of marriage, rather electing to live out my days as a confirmed bachelor. So I do not overtly praise your decision to take a bride, but I do offer my congratulations, as your old friend, and wish you to find happiness and prosperity from this marriage. 

Perhaps your Mrs. Watson may soon have your child, and if your child holds a fraction of your noble character and bravery, it will be a fine addition to this world. After all, it will be a real child in your care, rather than a proverbial one, which I admittedly took a form of. I trust you’ll be quite fulfilled in the home and family you are making, and will thus be preoccupied. But you needn’t worry, for I would never dream of intruding and forming a harem within your household. We can’t all three live and conduct ourselves in such a close sphere. Still, if your wife is perhaps as generous as the old Romans, she may lend you to me for but a while. If I were to see you at some time, that would be enough. So long as you may return to your previous home once every while though I do not expect you to stay. If you let me be a part of your life. That would be enough. 

I hope you shall be happy as I wish you, my dear Watson. Love to Mrs. Watson.

Yours truly, Sherlock Holmes

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Not a week later, Sherlock received a letter in reply. It was tied shut with a green ribbon, which Sherlock took care to undo. He paused and felt the soft fabric between his fingertips and gazed at the rich green color. This only took a moment before he opened John’s letter to read. Anxious anticipation twisted uncomfortably in his gut, but he shook the feeling away. It was ridiculous that he should become so worked up about Watson's reply to his letter, but then, he had been careless in demonstrating his sentiment. It was a unwise decision to allow himself to be so vulnerable and openly emotional. It was hardly the cold reason he so valued. But when had reason ever applied to what existed between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? So with stiff fingers and ice settling in his stomach even as his skin grew hot, Sherlock set his eyes open the first words of John's letter. 

 

My Dear Holmes,

I find myself in the rare position of being able to empathize with the workings of your great mind. You engross my daily thoughts, near to the point where I am unable to think of anything else. And as if this were not enough, thoughts of you intrude upon my sleep. I meet you within my dreams, and upon waking find that you linger in my mind. Then I cannot close my eyes again, the blood pulsing through my veins far too quickly to allow rest. In vain I have attempted to weaken, if not break, the strange and enigmatic pull you possess over me. Maybe you are an enchanter after all. I had entertained such an idea upon the first moments of meeting you and becoming your acquaintance. Hardly a logical conclusion, but logic has never seemed to explain you in your complexities, despite your love of it. In taking my vows and giving my heart to Mrs. Watson, I had expected some of this attachment to fade, but I cannot withdraw myself from my allegiance to you. I know we will more than likely find ourselves face to face once more, meeting to solve a case or to visit each other as old friends. And yet though that date may draw closer it seems to grow farther away with everyday that moves by. But to work alongside you again, the two of us engaging in the thrill of the chase, would be something I would ardently enjoy. 

My language is possibly too strong. Do you think so? I do not wish to be feeble in expressing the sentiments I have for you, as a close friend, but you are not one for sentiment, as stated. And I’m rather not one for it either. I experience difficulty with this sort of correspondence, but you are my friend, and the warmth of your letter has compelled me to express the same appreciation of our friendship. You may laugh at me for this, as you have called it, human error, but it is worth it, for you to know my inner thoughts. 

Holmes, in the letter I received from you I noticed a comma in the middle of a phrase. It was a phrase you’ve often said aloud in our past days. The comma you’ve included changed the meaning. It created a pause I’ve never heard before. I find myself unable to stop pondering your intention. You’ve written ‘My Dearest Watson’ with a comma after dearest.

You’ve written My Dearest, Watson.

Did you intend this? 

This set aside I have written you to let you know my wife, Mary, is indeed with child. Your old friend shall soon be a father as you predicted, my brilliant Holmes. On the day my precious child arrives it would mean a great deal were you to meet with me. I wish to soon be in your presence, even sooner than that date, and we may celebrate this event, as well as enjoy one another’s company. I will see you, and maybe it will be enough. May you too be as happy as I shall ever wish you to be. 

My Dearest, Holmes,  
Your Dearest, Watson

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sherlock reads and re-reads the words upon the paper till he cannot see them any longer. He realizes it is because his hands are trembling. His hands are trembling, and it is making the letter impossible to read. A strong part of him wants to entertain the idea that this unspoken feeling within him is reciprocated. A strong part of him wants to entertain acting upon it, in the privacy of what was once their flat. But loving logic like his dear, dear John had wrote, Sherlock knows that is not possible. The Oscar Wilde trials are just beginning to take place. This poet will likely be imprisoned or hung because of this unspoken feeling that consumes Sherlock. Oscar Wilde had harbored that same feeling for another by the name of Alfred Douglas. And he was going to be imprisoned or hung because of it. He was being put on trial. And the evidence against him?

Letters. Letters he had sent to this Alfred Douglas. Letters far too sentimental in nature. Letters that were far too suspicious. Letters that expressed the love that could not be given a name. 

Sherlock may be laughing or he may be crying but he isn't certain. All he knows is that the letter is gripped tightly in his hands as he shakes and shakes. His vision blurs and he sinks into his armchair, John's empty chair across from him. And he cannot stop shaking. 

They will see each other again. They will surely pretend that these letters have changed nothing. They will surely pretend these letters were never written. They will not give a name to what exists between them.

But will that be enough?

**Author's Note:**

> I also referenced some of the actual letters Alexander Hamilton wrote to Angelica and Elizabeth, as well as lines from the musical. And I also drew inspiration from the Oscar Wilde Trials and the letters he wrote to Alfred 'Bosie' Douglas. I hope you all enjoyed reading! I'm thinking about writing a continuation where the tension becomes somewhat resolved, in a sense.
> 
> (the tense change at the very end was intentional btw in case anyone was wondering)


End file.
